


A Point of Honour

by TobermorianSass



Series: On-dits from the lives of the rich and the obscure [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cameos, Crack but not crack, M/M, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3749092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/pseuds/TobermorianSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is an ancient proverb, frequently voiced among the excitable young bloods of Hogwarts, that the best wizarding elections are won not by votes, but by duels. Justin Finch-Fletchley proves this maxim right - to the delight of magical Britain - when he issues a challenge to Lucian Bole over several slanderous remarks made at the Malfoy Yule Charity Ball. </p><p>In which a duel is fought, Zacharias Smith discovers his true calling as a damsel in distress and Slytherin shows its true colours by abandoning Lucian in his hour of need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Point of Honour

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this a double-edged homage to both Georgette Heyer and modern British politics.

It was the punch’s fault, as it usually was.

That is to say, the punch had two times the amount of alcohol usually required and Draco, on his fourth glass of punch, decided that he’d have to give Binky a talking to. It would not do, after all, to have the Malfoy Yule Charity Ball become the sort of event that voyeurs eager to see the rich and famous humiliate themselves attended. Class was the Malfoy middle name. Draco Class Malfoy. And all that.

He sighed and placed his glass of punch on the side table and, swaying a little, made his way over to the circle that was forming in the center of the ballroom with Lucian Bole and Justin Finch-Fletchley at its center.

 In truth, the trouble had started two months ago when Lucian Bole, after five years of quietly pushing papers in Gringotts’ upper management, had appeared out of the woodwork and announced that he would be running for Minister for Magic with the express purpose of representing the interests of magical Britain’s minority pureblood community in the Ministry. As he’d expected, the press had ruthlessly dredged up the old allegations of misappropriated Ministry funds, and Lucian Bole, with a slimy smile that had made Draco tell his mother, regretfully, that he was “rather going to support Finch-Fletchley”, had subtly hinted at a public smear campaign and witch hunt to drive him out of office, run by none other than Finch-Fletchley.

Finch-Fletchley had denied this and everyone was inclined to believe him. Justin was the sort of person who was very hard to dislike, unless, it seemed, you were Lucian Bole. The gossip rags had pitched their tents firmly in the persecution mania side of things, concerning Lucian’s allegations. What had followed was a fair number of, ahem, crass jokes concerning the press and press cartels, the business of cocksucking and Finch-Fletchley’s relationship with the Finance Editor of The Wixenomist.  Naturally, following this, relations between the two competing candidates had been, to put it politely, strained.

Draco elbowed his way through the crowd and then stopped short at the sight which greeted him. In the centre, stood Lucian Bole, drenched in the infamous Malfoy punch. A few feet off stood Justin, his bosom heaving with righteous indignation and an empty glass in his hand. Well as he was on his way to getting thoroughly sloshed, Draco had no trouble putting two and two together and he stifled a sigh.

“- _have had enough of your lies_ ,” Justin was saying, “ _Pistols or swords_?”

“I don’t duel,” was Lucian’s lofty reply.

“Help,” Draco bleated, looking beseechingly at Marcus Flint.

Marcus Flint, it seemed, had turned conveniently deaf. The deafness must have been catching because Miles Bletchley seemed unable to hear him either. Adrian Pucey grinned and put his finger to his lips which did nothing for Draco’s growing sense of foreboding. He could see the headlines tomorrow. _SCANDAL AT THE MALFOY YULE CHARITY BALL_. Not a class act at all. He looked for someone else to intervene and nip this brouhaha in the bud, but unfortunately for him, both his mother and his wife were curiously absent. Evidently he was going to have to do this himself.

Draco took a deep breath.

“Bole, Finch-Fletchley,” he began, bravely stepping into the fray, “We’re all gentlemen, good men –“

“ _Not so brave now are you_?” Justin yelled and Draco winced.

“He didn’t –“

“ _Ha_ ,” said Bole dismissively.

“Lucian –“

“ _Pistols or swords_?” Justin repeated.

“Noduels!” Draco cast his dignity to the wind and tried to collar Lucian, “STOPIT!”

Lucian calmly set Draco aside as though he was a particularly tiresome Crup, “Name your seconds,” he told Justin, “And we’ll use swords.”

“ _Justin_ ,” Draco crossed the circle and tried to wrap his arms around him, with the vague idea that this would somehow stop him from whatever it was he was going to do next, “ _Don’t do it_. _Think of the press. Think of the children_. _Think of me_.”

Justin patted his shoulder apologetically, “I name Zacharias –“

“You can’t have him,” said Lucian, “He’s your wotsit.”

“Damsel,” someone from the crowd supplied helpfully.

“Yes,” Lucian eyed Justin challengingly, “It would be Wrong and against the duel code.”

Justin glared at him and Draco seized this opportunity to try and drag Justin aside and away.

“He’s not worth it,” he told Justin, “He’s not –“

A red-faced Ernie Macmillan and a slightly pale Wayne Hopkins, being propelled along at the elbow by Ernie, emerged from the surrounding crowd.

“We, Hufflepuff,” said Ernie and Draco decided that maybe he’d have to give Binky more than just a talking to, maybe a pay cut as well, “ _volunteer_ to stand by Justin in his hour of need.”

“ _No_ ,” said Draco, gesturing threateningly but vaguely, “No you _don’t_.”

“There you are then,” Justin said, wriggling free from Draco’s hold, “It’s all fixed.”

“Isn’t this fun?” said Astoria, just behind him, as Justin and Lucian angrily shook hands with each other as the members of the press in attendance scribbled and photographed away furiously.

Draco glared at her, snatched her glass of punch and downed it in one go.

* * *

The atmosphere _chez_ Smith-Finch-Fletchley was frosty to say the least. Or at least it would have been frosty if the Smith half of the Smith-Finch-Fletchley household was not currently artistically draped over a couch with a bottle of smelling salts having very loud hysterics.

“Shut up,” said Justin, completely unimpressed by the sight.

“Shan’t,” said Zacharias Smith, “I’m your damsel. It’s my _duty_ to make sure you know how Displeased I am and also how utterly terrified I am at your Certain and Impending Doom.”

“I’m not going to die,” Justin replied, “I think.”

Zacharias sat up, “Do you _know_ how to use a sword?”

“I was set for _Eton_.”

“I don't care about bloody _Eton_. Do you know how to use a sword?”

“I did some fencing at Oxford – honestly it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal –“ Smith threw his hands up in despair, “You challenge Lucian _Bole_ to a _duel_ with _swords_ and you tell me it’s not a big deal – he’s a _Slytherin_.”

“Slytherins can be nice,” said Justin, “Besides he’s agreed to abide by the duel code.”

Smith glared at his husband, “Oh he’s agreed to abide by the duel code that’s fine then, I’ll just sit here and wait for him to pull out a dagger and stab you when you’re not looking, it’ll all be fine, it’s not like a Slytherin has _ever cheated_ before, oh no, they all play by the rules _obviously_ –“ he broke off mid-sentence and took a strong whiff of his smelling salts.

 “Stop being so dramatic about it,” Justin told him.

Zacharias shut the bottle of smelling salts, “I’ll stop being dramatic about it,” he said seriously, “When you stop making mind-numbingly stupid decisions without consulting me or Mafalda, especially not ones that put your well-being in danger. Salazar’s _boots_ , Justin you think you’d be sensitive and appreciate the hard work Mafalda and I’ve been putting in for your campaign without creating more work for us by dueling Bole. Besides which you _don’t actually know how to use a sword_ , which, you know, some people might think is a bit of a problem.”

 “I don’t see how you having hysterics is going to help me any.”

“Because hopefully,” said Zacharias, rising from the couch with dignity, “You’ll care enough for my frail nerves to not repeat this again.”

* * *

“Sorry,” said Miles Bletchley, picking at an invisible piece of lint on the sleeve of his robes, “I’d love to be your second, y’understand, but alas, Blythely needs me in Luxembourg – ICW elections, y’know.”

“They’re not until _July_ ,” Lucian frowned.

“Sorry,” Bletchley shrugged, “Y'know how it is. The boss says you go, so you go.”

“I know,” said Lucian drily, “Marcus just _happens_ to have been assigned to a post in France. You just _happen_ to be going to Luxeumbourg. Just an unfortunate coincidence.”

“There’s always Pucey,” said Miles, ignoring the vile insinuations Lucian was making. Lucian was particularly good at those. He’d made a whole career out of it, in fact.

“Ha,” said Lucian witheringly.

“There, there,” said Miles sympathetically, “I’m sure Derrick and Higgs will be happy to help.”

* * *

 Wizarding Britain threw itself enthusiastically into preparing for the upcoming duel, albeit "unofficially". Odds were offered at varying lengths. Madame Malkin’s and Twilfitt and Tatting’s did excellent business in their historical robe section, and, to their collective surprise; wigs, patches and chicken-skin fans. Draco Malfoy sued every single gossip rag in the country for their three inch headlines calling the Malfoy Yule Charity Ball “A _Successful_ Scandal”. Zacharias Smith and Mafalda Prewett had several secret meetings with Wayne Hopkins and Hermione Granger-Weasley at The Inimitable Livers. Daphne Greengrass sent Justin a letter offering her legal services should the duel go awry. Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes produced two remarkably lifelike figurines of Justin Finch-Fletchley and Lucian Bole encouraging the children of Britain to “vote by the odds” (which were all in favour of Finch-Fletchley).  The head of the DMLE and the head of the Auror department both turned a blind eye to the upcoming duel and the incumbent Minister for Magic concluded, with the good advice of his predecessor Kingsley Shacklebolt, that this duel was none of his business and so, placed a five galleon bet on Justin Finch-Fletchley to win.

With rather less enthusiasm, Justin Finch-Fletchley set about the business of learning how to fence with a rapier and was chagrined to discover that Zacharias Smith had a point or two concerning light fencing during his Oxford years not being enough for a possible life and death situation. Wayne Hopkins attempted to assuage his sudden doubts by assuring him – with misguided enthusiasm – that if Bole _did_ finish him off, he and Ernie would make sure they finished him off.

Justin was fairly certain Zacharias would get there first, but he decided not to mention it and left Hopkins to his deluded vengeful fantasies.

Lucian Bole, meanwhile, had managed to recruit Peregrine Derrick and Terrence Higgs to his cause, though he might have been more suspicious of Higgs if he’d known that Higgs had sent a letter of good will to Justin Finch-Fletchley, in which he apologized profusely for having to be one of Bole's seconds.

In a cottage of pleasant proportions in Barcelona, Kingsley Shacklebolt sent silent thanks in the direction of his ceiling (and a possible divinity beyond it) because at least now he no longer had to deal with the spats Bole and Finch-Fletchley got into with unfailing regularity. He also sent a letter to Rufus Scrimgeour asking him to place fifty galleons at the odds of 15:1 on Justin winning the duel. This task was completed, though not without Scrimgeour telling Shacklebolt, in no uncertain terms, that he was an idealistic fool.

Augustus Blythely, editor-in-chief of The Wixenomist, put his entire office through their paces, insisting that they prepare two separate issues in case of one or the other winning. No one was particularly surprised when their Finance Editor volunteered with morbid glee, to write Justin Finch-Fletchley’s obituary, only to be shot down by Blythely drily reminding him that they were “not that sort of paper and if you have marital troubles, Smith, please take them to your therapist, not the pages of our magazine”. However, to the office’s relief, Blythely gave them the day of the duel off because, “as far as I know, you all caught a particularly nasty brand of flu which required the office being flushed out completely”.

Oh, and of course, Zacharias Smith made several suspicious shopping expeditions in the company of Mafalda Prewett and Pansy Parkinson and a surprise visit to his ancestral home in Pen Rhionydd, Wales.

Magical Britain was ready.

* * *

Justin found he was surprisingly far less nervous than he thought he would be on the day of his duel, the 23rd of December in the year of our lord, 2018 at 4 hours and nineteen minutes and twenty seconds in the morning –

Well perhaps he was a little nervous.

Ernie and Wayne’s obtuseness and conflicting advice were not helping either.

“Let’s go over this again,” he said, fidgeting with his shirt sleeves, “If anyone asks us –“

“ _Bloody hell Justin_ ,” said Wayne, “We’ve been over this _ten_ times already.”

“Just _do it_ ,” he snapped.

Ernie and Wayne rolled their eyes behind Justin’s back.

“We’re from the Museum of London,” they recited dutifully, “This is a rehearsal for a historical outreach programme designed to recreate student learning –“

“ _Wrong_!” Justin glared at them, but the darkness swallowed it up, “ _For fuck’s sake_ – Dad!”

The senior Finch-Fletchley, having received a mostly unintelligible email from his wife, detailing some sort of trouble his youngest son had managed to get himself into, had preponed his Christmas holiday – abandoning whatever important work it was that he did in Geneva – only to be greeted by his wife assuring him that Justin was about to get himself killed. After a few hours of careful and patient wrangling, he’d finally elicited the information that Justin was about to get himself killed at Hyde Park, just before Christmas, at some unearthly hour in the morning. He had then made his way to London post-haste, to demand an explanation from his youngest son because as a joke, it had now run its course and there was only so much familial stress he could take at Christmastime.

“Explain this,” said Sir Lawrence Finch-Fletchley, unceremoniously shoving a printout of this panicked missive at his son.

Justin squinted at the letter until Ernie helpfully cast a _Lumos_ charm.

“Wizards,” said Ernie, “Can use charms to make our lives easier, y’know?”

Justin decided to ignore that jab and instead gave his attention to the contents of the email. They were, for the most part, accurate, if a little garbled in expression.

“Ah. Um,” he handed it back to his father, “Yes. There is a duel.”

The look of disapproval on the senior Finch-Fletchley’s face deepened, “A duel.”

“With swords,” said Ernie, as Justin said brightly, “Ernie and Wayne are my seconds.”

It was now four thirty and witches and wizards were beginning to trickle into the park dressed, to Justin’s consternation, in full dress robes. Eighteenth century dress robes, to be precise. With wigs. Some of them were even armed with flags.

Sir Lawrence Finch-Fletchley, permanent representative of the United Kingdom to the UN, took this all in with an air of quiet but damning disapproval.

“God help you,” he told his son, “God help us all.”

* * *

In a flat on Kings Road, six year old Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley was watching Susanna Smith and Pansy Parkinson bustle around busily with pins and bobpins and ribbons with an air of contented but sleepy curiosity. In a push-chair in the corner, Michal Smith-Finch-Fletchley, a tender six months old, slumbered peacefully.

“Why is Auntie Su using ribbons in daddy’s hair?” she asked her Auntie Mafalda.

“Because your father likes it, dear, Justin that is.”

“No it’s because we’re – _ow_ , bloody _hell_ Su – teaching your father a lesson,” said Zacharias Smith.

“Suck your stomach in,” Pansy instructed him.

“ _Some_ lesson,” Mafalda muttered.

“He’s been very funny this week,” Ruth confided in Mafalda

“ _Merlin’s bloody balls_ –“

“Really, dear?”

“ _Suck it in harder_ –“

“Mmhmm,” Ruth nodded, “He keeps fainting and having," she frowned in concentration, "hysterics. D’you know why he’s been acting funny? Papa won’t say and daddy keeps pulling my leg.”

“ _I can’t breathe you_ –“

“Language, dear,” said Susanna mildly, as she continued pinning his hair into place.

“Do they now? That’s really shabby of them,” said Mafalda, “I suspect it’s because your da is feeling broody.”

“I’m _not_ a _hen_ ,” Zacharias Smith protested before breaking into a string of child-friendly swear words.

“What’s broody?” Ruth demanded of Mafalda.

“It means he wants more kidlets,” she replied, “Like you.”

Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley frowned as she processed this, “I think I’d like to have a baby brother,” she announced.

“Stop putting ideas in her head,” Zacharias scolded Mafalda, “ _I can’t suck my breath in any more, bloody hell Parkinson_.”

“Well I’m _sorry_ you wanted an _hour-glass figure_.”

“That was entirely her own addition to this conversation,” Mafalda said with relish, “I had nothing to do with it. You heard her. Give the poor girl a baby brother Zach.”

Zacharias Smith shrieked as Pansy Parkinson finished tying up his stay-laces.

“There,” she said, standing back and examining her handiwork with satisfaction.

“How does anyone _breathe_ in these?” he complained, “You’ve broken my _ribs_.”

“Petticoats,” said Pansy ruthlessly, approaching Zacharias Smith with yet another round of lacy fabric.

* * *

At a quarter to five, Ernie Macmillan developed a conscience.

“I like my job,” he told Justin, “I don’t want to go to muggle prison!”

Justin Finch-Fletchley, fretting for a very different reason – his life, for one – wheeled around on him.

“And I don’t want to _die_ ,” he said sharply, “If that’s _escaped_ your memory.”

“Look chaps,” said Wayne, intervening, “There’s no use fighting between ourselves, we have to remember the Real Enemy.”

Justin scowled at him and opened his mouth to say something.

“Besides,” Wayne continued, deftly cutting Justin short, “We have the FCO on our side and the DMLE and the Auror department,” he nodded in the direction of Hermione, Ron and Harry – the latter two of whom seemed to be under the impression that this was all a grand lark – “It’s all fine. We’re fine –“

He gaped incredulously at the figure approaching them.

“Justin,” said Luna Lovegood, “I made you one of these,” she held up a necklace of butterbeer corks, “For the wrackspurts,” she added, seeing the confusion on his face.

“Thanks,” Justin replied, taking the necklace from her, “That’s er, a nice wig Luna.”

“Thank you,” she beamed at him and the badger she’d somehow managed to charm into her wig snapped happily, “Of course,” she raised her voice, just the slightest bit, “We all want you to win, but I do respect Lucian for trying, it’s very good of him.”

Lucian Bole, who’d come up to them, dogged by Derrick and Higgs, turned his nose up at her.

“I don’t need your encouragement, _Loony_ ,” he said rudely.

“Bole,” said Ernie stiffly, in his best impression of Robert Walpole, “A –“

“He doesn’t mean it,” said Higgs, with some desperation, “He’s sorry, we’re sorry –“

Help arrived in the form of a diversion. To be precise, an extremely tall lady, in cloth of gold dress robes and black petticoats and the largest wig Justin had ever seen, seemingly emotionally distraught by the duel.

“ _Oh Justin_ ,” she cried, flinging herself into his arms, “My love, my darling, _must you fight_? Must you wreak such havoc on my poor nerves?”

“What,” said Justin flatly and then, as he recognized the familiar upturned nose and angular jawline underneath the powder and the rouge, “Zach.”

“Bloody hell,” breathed Wayne in awe.

“Must you fight?” Zacharias Smith asked Justin in a quavering falsetto.

“Ah,” said Justin, eloquently, still trying to process the sight of Zacharias Smith _a la poudree_ and in very feminine dress robes.

“Going to back down then, Finch-Fletchley?” sneered Lucian, “Going to give up because of your pretty little bird here?”

Terrence Higgs buried his face in his hands, moaning quietly to himself, as Zacharias Smith detached himself from Justin and drew himself up to all of his six feet and three inches (and three more, with his heels) and looked down his nose at Bole.

“It’s a shame you’re so attached to the gender binary, Bole,” he said, “You have just the facial structure to play an _ingénue_ and you’d look quite fetching in pink if you weren’t such a boiled turnip. Now,” he snapped his fan open, in an obvious dismissal, “If you’ll excuse me, I wish to speak with _M’sieur_ Finch-Fletchley on matters most important.”

Justin stared as Zacharias Smith solemnly cut one of the curls of his wig and offered it to him.

“A token of my regard,” he said breathlessly, seamlessly returning to his act of damsel in distress, “Please m’sieur, be safe.”

Ernie Macmillan sneezed loudly and hastily covered his face with a handkerchief at the sight of Zacharias Smith pretending to faint dramatically in Justin Finch-Fletchley’s arms.

“Fetch me his smelling salts,” said Justin weakly.

* * *

At five thirty AM on the dot, Justin and Lucian took up their positions in the center of the field and Terrence Higgs had just begun giving them their instructions when the crowd broke out into excited chattering as a carriage drawn by four thestrals descended from the sky and landed a little way off. The doors opened and cool as cucumbers, out leapt Marcus Flint and Miles Bletchley, utterly unabashed at having deserted a fellow Slytherin in his hour of need only to turn up and watch him fight a duel (for either his honour or for his life, depending on which part of the crowd one asked) with what was almost certainly schadenfreude.

“ _You bastards_ ,” cried Lucian, waving his sword around dangerously, as they elbowed their way through the crowd, “You,” he pointed his sword at Miles' throat, “Were supposed to be in Luxembourg.”

“Called back on important journalistic business,” Miles replied, unfazed by Lucian's actions.

Lucian turned dangerously on Marcus, “And you?”

Marcus flicked at an invisible piece of lint on his shoulder, “Security. My country needs me and all that.”

“All right, Justin?” Miles nodded at him as Lucian sputtered ineffectively about  _bastards_ and  _Slytherin_ and  _loyalty_.

Justin smiled waterily.

“What’s the carriage for?” Wayne Hopkins asked Bletchley curiously.

“Ah yes, that,” said Miles, rocking back and forth on his feet like a man who has conceived of a particularly brilliant plan, “That, is in case of emergencies –“

“Since you’re so thoroughly unprepared,” added Marcus.

“Yes, thank you Flint for your perspicacious comments. As I was saying, that is in case of emergencies. For example, if one of you were to go and get yourselves killed, it should serve well enough as a hearse. The thestrals will lend the whole affair an air of verisimilitude otherwise lacking –“

(“No one’s going to die,” Justin muttered mutinously.

“It’s only till first blood,” added Terrence underneath his breath.)

“ – Alternatively,” said Marcus, “It should serve well enough to cart whichever one of you loses speedily out of the country, far away from the long arm of the law.”

Terrence sighed and interrupted, before Wayne could point out that Marcus _was_ oneof the long arms of the law, “Can we get on with this before the entire country gets hauled up before the ICW for violating the Statute of Secrecy?”

* * *

From an excellent position on the sidelines, Hermione Granger-Weasley discreetly withdrew her wand from her robes, then looked in Wayne Hopkins’ direction and waited.

* * *

"All right then," said Terence, "Till first blood only, gents. Good luck," he put his watch back in his pocket, " _En garde_."

* * *

 

As Justin soon found out, Lucian’s fighting style had less style and more fight to it. He lunged aggressively and frequently, clearly aiming to put Justin on a back foot and finish him off quickly. However, his enthusiasm for attack meant his precision went for a toss and although Justin found himself parrying more often than he was attacking, he was, at least, able to hold his ground with relative ease.

He _might_ have been able to attack if he wasn’t so aware of Zacharias Smith having loud hysterics on the sidelines, clinging to the arm of the senior Finch-Fletchley.

His father, he was certain, was going to have some very choice words to impart to him when this was done.

* * *

Fifteen minutes into the duel, after one particularly close shave where Lucian very nearly pinked Justin – saved only by Justin hastily jumping to the side and blocking Lucian’s blade in a most awkward fashion – Wayne Hopkins pulled a large red handkerchief out from his pocket and mopped his forehead and then returned it to his pocket, a little corner hanging out on the side.

* * *

Justin fought exactly as he had thought he would, going for the defensive rather than the offensive. Always all about honour and fairness and what not, as though this wasn’t about the elections at all. This was all for the good of Britain, of course, because it would never do to put a Hufflepuff and _mu-muggleborn_ like Justin in the position of Minister for Magic; he’d only hand it all on a dish to the gossip rag crowd – Parkinson and that awful Prewett female.  

He spotted an opening and lunged determined to finish off Justin this time.

* * *

“I feel faint,” said Zacharias, uneasily.

“Oh _shut up_ ,” Pansy replied, "I've had _enough_ of your  _stupid_ theatrics."

"My laces are too tight," he whined. _  
_

"Well next time you can lace yourself into an hourglass figure on your own then," she snapped.

* * *

Hermione began to mutter the jinx underneath her breath –

* * *

For a moment the world was rushing upwards past him and then there was the sky, the deep dark blue before dawn, and then he was lying flat on his back, his shoulder stinging painfully and the tip of Justin’s rapier pressed against his throat.

* * *

– And stopped when a long red streak appeared on Bole’s shoulder just before he went crashing to the ground.

* * *

“Touché,” said Justin in that annoyingly friendly voice of his.

* * *

“Hryruyrhgh,” said Zacharias Smith and then fainted on to a very surprised Lawrence Finch-Fletchley.

* * *

Justin was not surprised when Bole, instead of graciously accepting his defeat, growled angrily.

“Are you satisfied?” he asked Bole instead.

Bole gritted his teeth, “Yes damn you,” he said as Higgs cast a healing spell on him.

“And you won’t go around making unfounded accusations about me?”

Lucian Bole looked physically pained as he murmured his assent.

* * *

“Shame,” said Miles, “I had a lovely eulogy written out and all.”

“For Finch-Fletchley?” Flint asked him curiously.

“Bole,” Miles corrected him, “Can’t stand that slimy git.”

“He used to be so good at Quidditch too,” said Flint sadly.

“Oh how low the mighty have fallen.”

“Old Finch-Fletchley should have made him retire from the running,” Flint continued, sounding even sadder, "'S wot I'd have done."

"Hufflepuffs," said Miles.

"Hufflepuffs," Flint agreed.

* * *

A commotion on the sidelines brought Justin back to earth and the startling realization that instead of being surrounded by well-wishers, all of the attention seemed to be concentrated on the sidelines where Mafalda and Pansy were standing.

“Hullo,” he said to Pansy, “What’s –“

“I can’t believe it,” she told him, “He’s _actually_ gone and fainted.”

“- loosen his _laces_ ,” Mafalda was saying, “Give him room to breathe, for _fuck’s sake_.”

Lawrence Finch-Fletchley, meanwhile, had discovered Smith’s smelling salts and was waving it underneath his nose in the hope that this would make him wake up and relieve him of the necessity of having to cradle his son-in-law, dressed as a woman, in his arms.

"I think its best," he told his son, in a strained voice, "If you visit your in-laws in Wales this Christmas."

“You should probably take him home,” observed Pansy, peering over Justin's elbow, "He doesn't look very good."

Justin was about to protest that Apparating with an unconscious six foot journalist was a recipe for disaster when he spotted the thestral-drawn carriage.

So it was that Justin Finch-Fletchley and a still unconscious Zacharias Smith rode home in state in a thestral carriage, with a string of Obliviators following in their wake, gleefully Obliviating any unfortunate Londoner who happened to be awake at that unearthly hour on a Sunday morning.

* * *

“Hnnnhhgmffff,” said Zacharias Smith, as the cracks on the ceiling of their bedroom swam into focus, “I _hate_ corsets,” he informed Justin.

Justin smiled fondly at his husband, threading his fingers gently through his hair – now de-wigged and unpinned – “No one asked you to wear dress robes.”

“It added to the verisimilitude of the whole business,” he said with dignity and then slowly sat up, “I thought I looked fetching.”

“Yes dear,” Justin kissed the back of his neck, “Charming.”

“ _La! M’sieur_ is a  _flatterer_ ,” said Zacharias, kicking off his heeled shoes and standing up, “Help me out of these ruddy things.”

“ _Forward_ ,” Justin stared at the various criss-crossing strings and ribbons and fastenings and what-nots in horror, “Can’t I just vanish them?”

“ _You can’t just –_ _Merlin’s balls_ Justin, these are my great-great-great-grandmother’s  robes, they’re family _heirlooms_ , you can’t –“

“All right all right, don’t get your knickers all in a twist,” said Justin, as he began undoing the various fastenings on the dress robes, “You’re as _vain_ as Pansy and Mafalda.”

“Someone has to have taste for the both of us.”

“Right,” Justin frowned at the lace on Zacharias’ petticoats, “Are they meant to be this fragile?” he asked him doubtfully.

“It’s _lace_ , Justin,” Zacharias wriggled rather enticingly – in Justin’s opinion – as he slipped the petticoats over his head, “Have you _never_ looked at women’s clothing in your entire life?”

Justin pulled the petticoat off of his face where Zacharias had unceremoniously dumped it, stared, made to sit down on the edge of the bed, missed completely and ended up sitting on the floor.

“Jesus,” Justin breathed reverently.

“Um,” said Zacharias, turning around to look at his husband. The look on Justin Finch-Fletchley’s face, as though Christmas and his birthday had all come at once, told him everything he needed to know.

“You should _always_ wear corsets,” Justin continued, breathlessly.

“Well then,” said Zacharias, “I think that answers my question.”

"And stockings," Justin added.

Zacharias Smith crossed his arms and surveyed his husband, still worshipfully prostrate on the floor, "All right," he said, "But only if you promise to take care of my frail nerves in the future - and let me and Mafalda run the rest of your campaign in peace - no interference."

"Yes, yes, whatever you say," Justin agreed impatiently, then licked his lips and looked up at his husband, "Can I?"

" _Ooh_ _Mr Finch-Fletchley, you saucy thing."_ _  
_

For once, Justin found he did not mind being mocked by Zacharias Smith.

**Author's Note:**

> No but really, a [Polish Prince did actually challenge Nigel Farage to a duel with swords](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBtcQ4vkRg0).


End file.
